“Because some changes happen deep down inside of you. And the truth is, only you know about them. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
—Judy Blume, Tiger Eyes
When I was almost 12 years old, my older brother Christopher bought me Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume, a coming-of-age novel told from the viewpoint of 15-year-old Davey Wexler after her father is killed at their Atlantic City convenience store. In seventh grade I did a book report on it using a giant poster board upon which I drew a painstaking rendition of the front cover. I was never skilled at drawing, but it remains the one artistic thing I can recall being proud of. I carried the original hardcover book with me everywhere I moved until I peeled off its dust cover and had it framed above my desk in my Oregon home.

A year after he gave me that book, he bought me a pair of tiger’s eye earrings, tiny eye-like stones wrapped in braided gold, after I got my ears pierced. Tiger’s eye is said to be a stone of inner strength and confidence, capable of warding off the evil eye and protecting one in battle. In our home, I was the confrontational one, the one who he once had to pull away from our father when I stood toe-to-toe with him during an argument, relentlessly challenging him. Eileen! What are you doing? 

Chris and I are only 17 months apart, making us only a grade apart in school. In every school we attended, I was “Chris Killackey’s little sister.” Everyone loved Christopher- he was smart, funny, and good. The kind of boy who everyone felt safe around. Being his little sister afforded me protection and care from others, especially his friends, some of whom I inevitably developed secret crushes on, who called me by the childhood nickname they heard Chris often use. Years ago, when I went back to Chicago for Chris’s surprise 40th birthday party, I was surrounded by those same boys who’d since become middle-aged men. I don’t remember a single one calling me anything other than “Binky” that night.

When I was in fifth grade, a boy in my class wouldn’t leave me alone and Chris, who had never been in a fight before and has never again since, let the boy have it. When the principal pulled me into the office and asked me to confirm who’d done it, I didn’t hesitate. “My brother,” I said, shrugging. Later, my father gave me a long, Godfather-esque talk about loyalty and not giving up family that left me ashamed, but Christopher felt neither angry nor betrayed. “You don’t lie, Eileen. And besides, everyone knows it was me.”

The year before I left for college, I drove to visit him at the University of Illinois almost 3 hours away. He said, “I think we should see what your alcohol tolerance level is. That way no one can get you drunk and take advantage of you.”

I had neither a desire to get drunk nor a taste for alcohol but my drive to make myself invulnerable was more powerful so I said,  “Fine. But I don’t want to get really drunk, ok?” Seven screwdrivers later, I was really drunk, a dolphin-like smile pasted on my face as we left the bar. The next day, my brother told me I chased people down the street, arms aloft, hands poised like claws, yelling, “I’m a monster! I’m a monster!” I even tried to climb into a fountain until he pulled me from the edge. I remember sitting on the bed of his best friend’s room watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure as my skin turned clammy and a paralyzing nausea rippled through me. I heard muffled voices saying, “Get her up!” before I was launched off the bed and proceeded to vomit the entire contents of my body all over his best friend’s bathroom. I spent the rest of the night (and much of the next day) in bed while my brother nursed me back to health, cleaned the bathroom and washed my clothing, marveling, “How can someone that looks so nice on the outside smell so bad on the inside?”

I’ve never been drunk since.

A year later, in an ill conceived attempt at a joke, I called him at school and lied that I had had a few too many at a college party and slept with someone without protection. I couldn’t maintain the ruse for long because his first question was, “Are you ok?” followed by “Let’s think. How are we going to get you taken care of? Is there a clinic on campus?” I don’t know why I thought he’d react any other way.

In 2002, I moved to Oregon. I knew I’d never live in Illinois again but I had not imagined I would move so far from my brothers. At 32 years old, I never believed I’d be here twenty years later. Or that I would cease practicing medicine four years after arriving. Or that I would open a bookstore one day. When that dream inevitably took hold inside me, naturally, I told Chris, who guided me through my first discussions with a bookstore training group, providing me the confidence to move forward.

I think my brother knew I had to leave Illinois, that I needed to go someplace where no one knew me. Where I wasn’t a daughter or a little sister. And perhaps he even knew that it’d be for good. Maybe he wasn’t aware of the changes brewing within me then that’d propel me to leave. But he made sure I knew how to protect myself, that I had the strength to face anything, anywhere I decided to go. I have to think that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Eileen Bobek is a former ER Doctor and now owner of Rebel Heart Books in downtown Jacksonville. This is from her December 2022 newsletter. To subscribe, please contact Eileen at rebelheartbooks157@gmail.com.